Submission
Next morning, children were awake earlier than usual in excitement. Two carriages carried us all to further west by the banks of Arno. Taddea and Lucrezia were taking care of the children and I sat with him. “Did you truly love her?” I asked.
He did not seem surprised by such a direct question, “What ascends your conscience by dispelling all the narrowness and inciting your intellection and cognition is true love. Yes, I had loved her truly.”
“Then why didn’t you marry her?”
“It was not that simple. Marrying her could only mean going against Ludovico. And that could jeopardise her entire poor family. But tell me, why an affair of love must mature to marriage?"
He had again started surprising me, “I sincerely hope you do not mean it?” “Why should I not mean it?”
“It is illicit.”
“Why? Since it is not accepted by many?”
“Marriage is holy. It is bondage of trust, love, respect, loyalty. Denial is not wise. Dissenting is blasphemy.” He laughed, “Poor woman, you will never know the freedom lies beyond.
His words made me unstable. What freedom was he talking about? Freedom from what? I asked, “What freedom can possibly lie beyond holy wedlock? Why does one need to know of this freedom?"
“Marriage,” he answered, “legitimatises sexual rights. You can enjoy each other’s body lawfully if you are married, irrespective of presence of love. Could not have been any better bondage there than marriage to make ravishment law-abiding. Foolery will be denying that love may bloom after years of cohabitation. But what is the foundation of such love? Ask yourself. Did you know Signor Francesco before your marriage?"
“No, I did not.”
“How old were you?”
“Almost sixteen.”
“Did you love someone before?”
“No”
“Did your father ask your consent?”
“No. He told me that I was getting married.”
“Did he do it with your consent at the first occasion?”
“I was afraid. But he made that easy for me.”
“How did you feel when a man, whom you did not know enough, entered you?"
I, probably, had become red by his question which he had definitely noticed, “You need not to answer me. Instead, you should have asked this to yourself. You are a wonderful wife, a remarkable mother, an ideal daughter, but where is your own self? Do you see yourself in a mirror or the characters you play? The love I was advocating for takes down all the visors you wear and shows you your own self. You are someone beyond being daughter or wife or mother. And there lies the freedom. It is our right to know of this freedom. We are too great to be just of someone else’s."
His words again plunged my mind in inquietude. Was I, then, living in illusion denying my own self? What was Francesco? My love? Compulsion? Or an acquired habit? Being contemplative I remained silent looking on to my children.
“Sooner the pioppo comes, better for me. I cannot indulge myself basking your hospitality for time indefinite.” He changed the subject.
“Have you decided on the background?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Which one? Where?” I asked excitedly.
“In my imagination it is.” He replied.
I smiled as if I knew his answer. “Aren’t those little ones feeling hungry?”
I said, “Picnic is not what they can enjoy often. Haven’t seen them so overjoyed, so happy for long. A mother will be grateful to you.” He smiled and I continued, “You did not do any fair hiding this day from me till last night. I wish I could present you something memorable.” I took out a piece of cloth from one of the baskets. It was embroidery work about how had I seen him in Milano surrounded by his adorers. I had used only black and white yarns, as no other colours were with me. He observed with heed, “You have an artistic soul. What could have been more memorable? This will remain with me. You embroidered it overnight?”
I was feeling so contented and proud. “Yes,” I smilingly replied.
“Splendido! It was always there for you, in you. Never allow it to leave you.”
The day came to an end in short order as that seemed. We went back to home. Children went to sleep early. He retired too.
I took a bath to calm my untamed mind. Before going to bed I stood in front of the mirror to arrange my hair. Instead, I let it flow free. My hair was dark brown, long and somewhat curly. My hair was quite a complement to my round face with brown eyes. My lips tender like sunlight of winter, could smile in any situation hiding myself. Suddenly, to my utmost surprise, I undressed myself. Instead of feeling ashamed I looked at myself. Even after giving birth to four children by twenty four, I was attractive. My bosoms were proud to have quenched a man’s lust and nourished four lives. Yet they were filled with abundant ambrosia. My waist lines were like curves of both sides of Arno which will never meet but will complement each other. My womb, inside my belly, is the most consecrate of the vessels. I turned left. My crescent nates gave fullness to my grace.
Francesco had always been an admirer of my appeal. I felt his satisfaction each and every occasion. I had surrendered myself to him. He always cherished my obedience, in bed and out of it. He savored me with immense satiety. I was proud that I had outdone each of his earlier wives.
But was that only the very foundation of our conjugal relation? Could he love me had I not been the same as I was to him? Did he love me for the pleasure I gave him? Did he love me for I had always been a good housewife? Did he love me for I was not demanding? Could he love me had I wanted to be myself? Could our domestic lives be so peaceful had I wanted to put my art before everything? He had never fallen short of his duties towards me. Respect and dignity, I deserved being his wife, he had always extended in any social gatherings. Not any single birthday I could remember since our marriage, he came home without gifts for me. He had helped me as much as he could in every household work when we could not afford maids. Even to make our prosperity memorable he had commissioned the most expensive artist in Italy to portray me. And suppressing every other reason to be proud for being his wife, he had always been loyal to me. Yet, I was having doubts about him? Or about myself? Was my loyalty for him unflinching? Why did I feel jealous, every occasion Leonardo praised the lady of Siena? Every man and woman would be drawn to him for who he was, but my reasons were far more than just his virtues. My body ached for his touch, my lips craved for the kiss that could overshadow hours of playful copulation. Even knowing that it was treachery, I never could refrain myself. Knowingly I would be confined in purgatory forever, I let my thoughts ran wild. Went to bed unclothed.
Ignited desire of coitus didn’t allow me to sleep. Harder I tried, more miserable I became. My sinister self within me was rebellious. Laying aside all boundaries of nobility, pride and relations I put only my night gown on to knock his door.
He opened the door with disturbed sleep in his eyes and was surprised to see me at those dead hours of night. Without seeking his permission I entered and closed the door behind me.
“What could possibly be bothering enough to bring you here at these hours?” He asked.
“Was that woman prettier than me?” I asked without any pretense.
“Every woman is beautiful in her own way. You need not to compare.”
“I am not a child and I do not deserve a diplomatic answer.” I said restlessly. He remained silent. And each moment of his silence made me uncontrollably unruly. I disgowned myself and stood naked in front of him.
I could easily read his uneasiness, but asked, “Now tell me was she prettier than me?”
He didn’t take his eyes off me, “Nudity doesn’t reveal the beauty. I was inclined towards her.”
Though I knew what would be answers, my eyes filled up with tears and I let myself sat on his bed, “I have always been loyal to him as he has been to me. I never disobeyed him; neither has he ever disgraced me. I am happy with him. I think I am. But I can’t find myself, my very own self. Well before I could realise, it was buried under duties of my domestic life. But she wants to be free, she deserves to be free.”
“Freedom comes only when you are strong enough to challenge your own limits.” He sat by my side. I looked at him. I was not feeling naked.
“You can find yourself in your paintings. You can find her in whatever you do. Cease to be someone’s daughter or wife or mother. Freedom is to be earned and labour for such earning is onerous.”
“My family will not accept my denials.” “I said it is not easy, more difficult than you can ever imagine.”
“No one will stand by my side, I know.”
“It is your battle and you will have to fight alone.”
“Will you show me the path?”
“You know the path already.”
“Will you come to visit us often for the portrait?”
“Not if there is no reason.”
“Procrastinate. Nobody will seek explanations.”
“Art takes it own time. Procrastination is an insult.”
“I want you to come back.” I was desperate.
“If it is necessary, I will.”
“I don’t bother about the portrait, but about you.”
He remained silent for few moments, “Your husband is my employer for he has commissioned me and he has agreed to my demand without slightest of negotiation. I am concerned about that. My return will entirely depend on need.”
His reply took me to the ends of desperation. Throwing the entire world aside I grabbed her shirt and locked his lips with mine. He neither rejected nor accepted. Time had stopped for me. After countless moments I released him and sat by his side. He placed his hand on my head and asked, “Are you relieved?”
Little he knew how far was I from that feeling at that very moment. Instead of answering I took his other hand and placed on my breast. He smiled and asked, “Do you want to sleep here?” I didn’t reply. I laid down in his arms and we both remained silent for long. I had no feeling of guilt when I rose to kiss him. That time, he restrained me, “Lisa, freedom is not always in breaking the rules but in rising above the rules. You cannot find yourself through me for she resides in you. My entering in you will appease your body not your mind since it is temporary. It will leave mark of guilt on your soul for you are not adulterous. For momentary furore and debility you cannot impair the vessel that holds you. You have to outgrow the vessel by dint of your virtues. That is what freedom about. Life is the most precious gift our unseen parent could give us. Making it condemnable or commendable is what we decide. You leave this bed and room with effulgence of self-esteem this night or in the dark of disgrace and defeat tomorrow morning is your decision.”
I laid down in his arms for long in silence. All my feelings dissolved into tears. I rose and looked at his face, which was blurred by my tears. Before I left his room putting my gown on he said, “Your portrait will bear the grace of femininity.”
Next day the Lombardi pioppo arrived. He was so happy to see those in good condition. I was immediately informed that, from that afternoon he would start his work.
I asked him, “Do I need any preparation?”
“Want you in the same dress I had seen you in at the first day.”
“I have more gorgeous ones.”
“You need to look yourself, not gorgeous.”
In the afternoon he started his work. He asked me to take my seat on a pozzetto with my arms folded. I rested my left hand on one arm of the chair and right hand rested on the left. He also asked me sit straight and look at him. He made a very unusual request then, “I want you to take your wedding ring off.”
“Why? This is my wedding ring, just not any ring.”
“Just a ring cannot prove your loyalty for him. But you, yourself do,” he smilingly replied.
Reluctantly I obeyed him.
He was not happy with my way of looking at him. After wasting considerable amount of time for correcting my look, he asked me to try to look away to an imaginary observer with a slight smile instead of looking at him. I felt, he was not contented with that look either. But he did not complain anymore. I sat for him for next fourteen days. I was not allowed to look at his work
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